


adoration // obligation

by Arianne, patrexes



Series: Kinktober 2019 [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: (Extremely Unsexy) Porn as Character Study, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Kinktober 2019, Lingua Latīna | Latin, M/M, Rimming, Roman-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-29 11:30:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20795942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arianne/pseuds/Arianne, https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrexes/pseuds/patrexes
Summary: “Legatus. I want you to sodomize me.”





	adoration // obligation

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: ass worship. hover for translations (with creator styles on).

“Lēgāte,” Solus says by way of greeting as Gaius admits himself to his chambers, punctual as ever despite the sour expression on his face. In the Imperial Palace, the ghost of the _Agrius_ follows him like a shadow; no doubt he’d rather be within the halls of his own manor, with the Junius girl who seems with each passing day more eager to get him balls-deep in her tight young cunt. It makes little difference: Gaius comes when called, ever the loyal pet—if one now refusing to do more than play dead. If it was not enough to fail his men, or to account for conceding the Eorzean campaign before his peers, would that mounting his Emperor might spur him into action.

Solus looks up from his bed without rising. “Volō mē pædīcās.”

The shock is easy enough to read in Gaius’ face. One full third of Gaius’ natural life has slipped away since Solus first made the same request of him, and nothing truly has changed: it is the expression he wore at all of fifteen, then an optio nearly broad enough in the shoulders to have passed for a soldier of proper age, eager to prove his worth to the XIth and his Emperor. Now, at forty-and-two and so well-forged for his role, by all rights he should still long for Solus’ approval and yet what comes out of his mouth is “An iubar—?”

Solus sighs, and drops his shoulders. No more than a snap of his fingers could have had guards at his side and Gaius killed for indolence, but should he have _wanted_ Gaius dead, he would have had the deed done immediately upon recalling the XIVth to the capital. It would hardly do now. Solus merely cocks his brow. “Nōnne audīveras?”

Gaius straightens his back, appropriately chastised. “I–Ita vērō, iubar domine mī.” His tone is rote, and owes little to the cries of the man ten years hence, delivering Nagxia into his lord’s hands, moaning simply _domine_ when Solus took him in this very bed for a reward. How disillusioned he has grown in these long, _long_ years, willing to admit defeat and let Eorzea elude his grasp, and how far from where they began, with the boy-soldier Solus met and molded into his own. Solus had bedded him when his wife was too heavy with child to receive him: tactless, perhaps, but well within the bounds of acceptability among the Garleans, for how was a youth meant to learn to wield his manhood if not by example? Solus had taught pyr Bælsar well, and found himself disinclined to conclude the arrangement at the time it would be proper. It was unbecoming, so the custom claimed, for a man to be fucked once he came of age: the citizen’s body inviolable. This tradition was somehow _so_ indispensable to the Garlean ethos even the kingdom of eld kept it in unwavering esteem, and for a legatus of twenty-six to willingly take a cock up his ass should by all accounts have been enough to disqualify him from command. But the will of the Emperor is absolute, and Gaius then was loyal to a fault; now he makes no move to undress and obey.

“Tum perge…” Solus goads with a dismissive wave of his hand, his palm upturned, and at _last_ Gaius is shaken into action. His face unsettled—nearly wary—he removes his coat and the jack of plate he wears beneath it, shoves down his breeches. There was a time he would be hard already when he entered Solus’ tent, simply waiting at parade rest for the command to undress; youth or devotion, Solus couldn’t say.

Regardless, he’s soft now. Gaius spits in his palm, and takes himself in hand.

Solus lets the moment drag on, his gaze falling lazily to Gaius’ cock, girth impressive even unaroused. The look on Solus’ face, he knows, will read to Gaius in light of the Garlean disdain for gracious endowment, and he finds himself feeling no need to correct the assumption. Let him be ashamed: he _ought_ to be, if not for the shape of a body over which he had no influence. When he’s managed half-hardness at last Solus averts his eyes; nothing more than practicality as he divests himself of his lounging robe. He does not rise from the bed, meaning to minimize the strain on this body’s aging joints—a shame though the consideration is. Where once he would have had Gaius bend him over the bed’s edge, their hands side-by-side gripping the footboard white-knuckled, now his knees (or Gaius’, for the matter) are unable to tolerate even the chamber floor.

The weight of Gaius’ knee shifts the thick mattress, without asking permission. Solus turns his lips at one corner—Gaius is nothing if not audacious, and shouldn’t they all do well to remember it, still redolent of the scorched æther now permeating the wasteland he had made of Mor Dhona.

“Ubi oleum est?” Gaius asks.

Solus shrugs. “Nōn est,” and to his credit, Gaius does not question his lord’s judgment a second time.

There’s relatively little fanfare to the remaining process: given the presumption of leave, Gaius lays hands upon his Emperor, parting his cheeks with pads of his fingers digging into the soft give of aging flesh. Spit-slicked thumbs sweep over the rim of his ass, tangle of unshaven hair catching on Gaius’ nails as he opens him up, distant and perfunctorial with first both thumbs to pry Solus open, then middle and forefinger of his left hand replacing his right. His fingers are too dry, the rasping friction of calluses against such sensitive flesh unpleasant but satisfying in its own peculiar way. Those dry fingers are around his own cock, Gaius fighting his way to hardness, peeling back his foreskin with the pad of a thumb made filthy already. With Solus on his side Gaius cleaves himself to his back, a mockery of romance; gripping Solus’ fragile hipbone and forcing himself inside is anything but.

Aging though they both may be, Gaius fucks rough and quick, as he always has: a consummate soldier with no need for theatrics, silent but for the grunts forced from deep in his chest by the effort the pace necessitates and the vulgar slap of flesh against flesh. Gaius reaches around for Solus’ soft cock, a tedious old habit Solus can’t recall ever specifically ordering of him. Solus swats his hand away.

While fucking _can_ in its own right be a pleasant diversion, at present he finds himself deriving little enjoyment of it, and Bælsar’s sense of duty has ever of late been a double-edged sword. His obedience comes disgusted—by the orders, by himself; perhaps even by Solus though he would never admit such a thing, and how jejune is _that_? If he will not rise to the challenge, then there’s no need to dither; Solus will oblige them both, put on a _real_ show. When Gaius is close—he’s never been subtle about it, with the pace of his thrusts growing irregular and his breath harsh in Solus’ ear—Solus orders him, “Intrā mē mēie,” as crude as he can put it.

Gaius’ breath catches, his inhale a wheezing thing, and he obeys in short order: a few more shallow thrusts before he spills. He begins pulling out even before he’s finished, come making a mess of the crack of Solus’ ass, and rolls away onto his back to put space between them. Solus snaps his fingers where they hover above the floor beside the bed. “Genūflecte.”

And what a good dog: for all his dread acceptance, Gaius van Bælsar immediately rises, comes around to Solus’ bedside; falls there to his knees. Perhaps it was _not_ a waste to have trained him, flaws though he of course retains.

Gaius bows his head to lap at Solus’ limp cock. With his arms loose at his sides, the motion—trying to mouth at the Emperor’s cock, and he must think he’s expected to warm it—is these ridiculous little twitches of his head, lips curled over his teeth as he attempts to catch the head in his open mouth even as Solus pulls away, a motion of his hand all that’s needed to convey _that is not what I require of you_. Gaius sits back on his heels, and waits.

This body is old, and its rickety joints complain as Solus changes his position, getting to his elbows and knees sideways across the bed. “Īmum lingor ā vōbīs velim,” Solus drawls, enunciating each word and with his ass before Gaius’ eyes. To have used Gaius to warm his cock would have been insult, but accomplish nothing save so-called punishment for his failings; to fuck his throat would require nothing of him but to endure. If he will not make himself the aggressor given the invitation, let him filthy his mouth serving.

Gaius takes in a ragged breath. “Dēbeō—”

Spreading his thighs as he gets lower on his elbows, his soft cock hangs down between his legs. “Dēbēs iubeō quoddam,” and his voice brooks no further argument.

The Garleans say there is no act less dignified, and they’re certainly right about _that_ (though the idea of a dignified sex act at all, Solus must admit, has lost him). Gaius’ fingers hold apart Solus’ asscheeks, his nails digging into flesh as he laves at the mess between his Emperor’s legs. He licks up across his rim—worn red and puffy from hard use, Gaius’ spend drying clumps in wiry hair Solus no longer keeps shaved as he did in his body’s youth—and once he’s lapped up his leavings Gaius gets his tongue inside him. Gaius has never cared for his own taste, be it licked from Solus’ ass or off his fingers or even once pressed back into his mouth after fucking his Emperor’s throat. But he knows his place, what Solus expects of him, and he’s thorough enough despite the fact he must be tasting more than only himself.

Truly, is there anything else so base as sex?

Vile though it may be, the sensation is not unpleasant, removed from its context. Solus exaggerates the rock of his hips, forcing Gaius’ tongue ever deeper. “Amās cūlum meum vorāre, nōnne facis?”

Gaius’ reply comes whispered against Solus’ well-used rim: “Amō, iubar domine mī.” _I love it__, Your Radiance._


End file.
